


Beyond Goodbyes

by helsinkibaby



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, West Wing
Genre: Angst, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-13
Updated: 2005-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”You remember the first time we met?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Pairings That Ate Fandom.

I have looked and looked till I can look no more... here they are, my fics, if they can be called that, for the latest round of [](http://ithurtsmybrain.livejournal.com/profile)[**ithurtsmybrain**](http://ithurtsmybrain.livejournal.com/)

Title: Beyond Goodbyes  
Pairing: Sara Sidle (CSI) / Will Bailey (West Wing)  
Rating: PG13, angst  
Word Count: 8,146  
Spoilers: Everything up to Nesting Dolls for CSI, and Drought Conditions for West Wing, to be safe.  
Disclaimer: Not mine  
Summary: ”You remember the first time we met?”  
Notes: Written for The Pairings That Ate Fandom.

_“You remember the first time we met?”_

It would be something of a cliché to say that their eyes meet across a crowded room, even if it’s partly true. Only partly though, because while Will looks across, sees Sara standing there, she doesn’t see him.

Her eyes are too busy scanning the room, as if she’s looking out for someone, and Will can’t say what draws his attention to her at first.

Then he realises. She’s standing against the wall, back pressed against it as if the loud music and bodies dancing are pressing her back against it, and he knows, without knowing how, that her hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white. She looks every inch the outsider he feels himself to be, and in that moment of kinship, he takes a step towards her, not sure of what the end result will be, just knowing that he has to do it.

He stops in his tracks when a guy comes up to her, hands her a drink and receives in return the most dazzling smile that Will has ever seen in his life. It’s not a perfect smile, he notes immediately, but the gap between her front teeth is nonetheless arresting, and it makes him more determined than ever to meet her, to get to know her.

He gets lucky when a friend of his comes up to him, claps him on the shoulder, and, seeing where he’s looking, shakes his head. “You want an introduction?” he asks, and Will looks sharply at him, wonders just how much Tim has had to drink.

“She’s taken,” he points out, and Tim just rolls his eyes.

“It’s an introduction,” he says. “Not a proposal of marriage.”

He propels Will across the room, introduces him to Sara, who turns out to be a freshman, majoring in theoretical physics. She’s smart and she’s funny, and she even seems to like Will, teases him about his accent when he slips into British pronunciations by accident, either through nerves or alcohol, he’s not sure which. The rest of the party seems to fade into the background as they talk, a rarity for Will, and Sara tells him later, much later, that the same is true for her.

She might have come to the party with the other guy, but she leaves with Will.

_“I remember you waking up screaming… scaring me out of ten years of life.”_

Will’s not the kind of guy who usually brings a girl home the first time that he meets her, and from the things Sara’s said to him, the things that Tim said to him about her, she’s not the kind of girl who does that either. He is, however, a gentleman, who would never let a lady walk home alone, even if home is only a five minute walk across the college campus – or maybe especially then.

He walks her back to her dorm, his hand in hers the entire way, the conversation continuing easily, and he wonders as they walk if he should ask her out again. She solves the dilemma for him when they reach the steps of her dorm, turning to him with a smile on her face – that same smile that stopped his heart from clear across the room, and it’s even more arresting this close – and tells him that she had a really good time. “I don’t usually do this,” she says, and he knows it’s the truth, just like he knows, when she tilts her head, glances towards the door, what she’s going to say next. “But would you like to come upstairs?”

Will doesn’t answer her, not in words at any rate, instead brings his lips to hers in a kiss that threatens to leave him breathless, leaves stars shining in her eyes when he pulls back. She doesn’t speak as she leads him to her room, and once the door is shut and locked behind them, her roommate having already intimated that she’s staying out all night, no words are necessary.

The last thing Will thinks before he falls asleep, Sara’s head on his shoulder, her chest rising and falling in slumber, is that he’s glad he let Tim talk him into going to that party.

The next thing he knows, there is some kind of commotion beside him, and as he tries to wake up, tries to remember where he is, there is a scream, hastily cut off, that cuts through any remnants of slumber. Instantly, he’s wide awake, sitting upright, throwing a hand out blindly to the bedside table in search of his glasses.

Of course, it’s not his bedside table, so it takes him longer than usual to find them, rushing adrenaline and shaking hands not helping either. When he finally does locate them, looks around him, he’s shocked at what he sees there; Sara, wide-eyed and shaking, staring sightlessly ahead, tears streaming down her bloodless cheeks. Her knees are pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, and for a second, Will wonders if she even knows that he is there.

Then he reaches out, puts his hand on her shoulder, and her reaction removes all doubt.

Her head whirls around to him, at the same time as she scoots further away, moving so quickly that she almost ends up on the floor. Will would reach out to touch her, except the look on her face has him paralysed. It’s a mixture of fear and revulsion, and never in all his life has anyone ever looked at him that way.

“Sara…” he begins, then stops, unsure of what to say. Unluckily for him, she finds her voice first.

“Get out.” Her voice is flat, controlled, too controlled he knows at once, but conviction burns in her eyes, along with the revulsion, banishing the fear, and he’s not sure why, but he thinks that arguing with her might not be the best thing to do.

Holding out his hands, telling her without words that he’s not going to touch her, hurt her, he slides from the bed, locates his clothes scattered around the room, and dresses quickly. He doesn’t take his eyes off her, but she doesn’t look at him at all, until, that is, he is at the door, and he finally speaks.

“Sara… are you ok?”

Her eyes meet his then, and they scare him more than anything else that has happened this morning, because there is nothing there. They are empty, soulless, and he remembers the smiling girl he went home with last night, wonders what happened in those few hours to turn her into this wraith.

“Just go,” is all she says, and, not knowing what else to do, he does as he’s told.

_“Didn’t scare you off though…”_

For the rest of the day, he can’t get Sara out of his head, the look on her face, in her eyes, the tone of her voice. He thinks of how he woke up, the sensation that someone beside him was tossing and turning, and he remembers the hastily truncated scream that finally brought him to full wakefulness. A nightmare, he realised, a bad one if the look on her face was anything to go by, and something about the scream, about how quickly she silenced it, makes him think that this wasn’t a foreign experience for her.

He can’t stop asking himself, what horrors would affect someone like that?

He’s almost afraid to know the answer, but he spends the rest of the day wondering, coming up with all kinds of scenario, at the same time as he’s cursing himself for leaving so easily, for not trying to talk to her, find out how she is.

Which is why, that evening, he finds himself at her door again, knocks softly, waits for her to answer.

When she does, her face registers her surprise. “Can’t say I expected to see you again,” she says, with the merest hint of sarcasm, and he shrugs.

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, and when she says nothing in response, just stares at him, he tries again. “May I come in?”

She steps back to let him in, the look on her face indicating she’s anything but pleased, and once inside, he’s suddenly speechless. Then, as she did that morning, she saves him having to find words. “You don’t have to check up on me, you know,” she says. “It was just a bad dream.”

Except that she’s not looking at him, and her arms are crossed over her chest, shoulders rounded and hunched, and he’s never seen anyone look more defensive. “I was worried about you,” he says simply, and, in case that’s too much honesty, follows it up with, “No-one’s ever woken up screaming after finding me in their bed before.”

The quips works, surprising a laugh out of her, and after that, a ghost of a smile. “Bad for your ego?” she wonders, and he inclines his head in acknowledgement.

“To put it mildly,” he says, smiling up at her, and she looks at him then, meets his gaze with her own and holds it. “So, I figured I’d try to convince you that I’m not that scary after all.”

Sara lifts an eyebrow. “How are you going to do that?”

“I figured I’d let you buy me dinner… make up for scaring me out of ten years of life this morning,” he says, unsure of what exactly he’s saying, this being the very definition of tight-rope walking without a net, but whatever he’s coming up with, it seems to do the trick, because Sara laughs again, shakes her head.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself,” she observes.

“Not really,” Will replies, and means it. “But I had a good time last night… and I’d like to see you again.”

There is a moment of silence, one that stretches and holds, and once again, Sara breaks it, walking over to the desk, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. “You’re not going to ask me what the dream was?” she wonders, keeping her eyes on the wooden chair as she slips on her jacket, pulling her hair out over the collar, keeping herself busy arranging it just so. He still notices that her hand is shaking though, and neither does he miss the tremor in her voice.

“No,” he says, his voice quiet, but firm. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

“What if I don’t?”

He’d bet every last cent in his pockets that she wanted that to come out strong and brave, rather than quiet and uncertain, but it’s a challenge nonetheless, and even if Will Bailey has never walked away from a challenge in his life, he’s certainly not going to walk away from her.

“Then you don’t,” he allows. “But I’m willing to take my chances.”

The unspoken question hangs in the air between them, and she answers it, not in words, but by stepping towards him, taking his hand in hers and lifting her face to his. “Let’s go.”

_“The truth didn’t do that either.”_

Dinner is not followed by a repeat performance of last night, because while he walks her back to her dorm again, this time, he walks her to her door, then kisses her for a good five minutes outside before she enters alone. He does however, arrange to meet her for breakfast the following morning, and that marks the start of a slow slide into dating, where, in complete counterpoint to their first night together, they take things slowly. Which is something that none of their friends seem to understand, but Will doesn’t care about that. Because on that first dinner, while he saw the funny, smart woman that he’d fallen for at the party, he also saw something else there too, a brittleness, a fragility that she tried to hide from the world. She tries to hide it from him too, but now that he knows it’s there, he can’t believe that he ever missed it, and when he catches a glimpse of it, he wonders anew what caused those scars, what affects her so.

She never tells him though, and even when they eventually spend the night together, she still hasn’t told him, hasn’t as much as brought up the subject. Which, it surprises him to admit, is fine with him, because there’s so much more to Sara Sidle than whatever dark secret lurks in her past, and the more he finds out about her, the more time he spends with her, the more time he wants to spend with her. By the time Christmas closes near, they’re spending most of their free time together, and for someone who’s never made friends easily, Will can’t imagine his life without her in it.

Then one day he asks innocently about her Christmas plans, and he’s shocked when his friendly, cheerful Sara turns into the wraith Sara who ordered him out of her room that first morning together.

“I don’t have plans,” she tells him, and he laughs, because at first he thinks she’s joking.

“It’s Christmas,” he says. “Everyone has plans for Christmas.”

“Not me,” she says. “I’ll just stay in the dorms and study… I’m a little behind in some of my classes, the quiet time in the library’s gonna come in handy…”

“Sara…” They’re in his dorm room, him at the desk, chair turned towards the bed, where she sits on the end, legs drawn up lotus style, eyes fixed on the book in front of her. He reaches out, flips the book closed so that she has no choice but to look up at him, and when she does, he sees that wraith-like look and knows that he’s inadvertently wandered into dangerous territory. He casts about for something to say, finally settles for, “Talk to me,” and she gives him a look that’s almost pitying.

“There’s nothing to tell. Just not every family has the whole Rockwellian Christmas fantasy, that’s all.”

He would laugh at that, because his family are many things, Rockwellian not being among them, but there’s an atmosphere in the room that precludes humour. “You know,” he says slowly, “We’ve been together two months now… and you’ve never mentioned your family.”

A shrug. “Nothing to tell.” She goes to open her book again, but quick as a flash, his hand lands on it, keeps it closed. Her head whips up, eyes blazing fire, but he’s completely calm as he stares her down.

“Everyone has a family.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say when her jaw clenches, when she looks down and takes a deep breath. “Will, leave it.”

“Why aren’t you going home for Christmas?” he demands, and when she answers, he almost, almost, wishes he hadn’t pushed her.

“Because I don’t have a home, Will. And I don’t have a family.” She throws the words at him violently, and he leans back, removing his hand from the book, more in shock at the look on her face than at what she’s said. She’s looking at him as if she hates him, more anger in that look than there was even in look she turned on him that first morning. “Are you happy now?”

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. “I’m sorry,” he says, and she rolls her eyes, runs her tongue around her lips as if there’s a bad taste in her mouth and that will help her get rid of it.

“I’m seventeen years old, Will,” she tells him, and in contrast to the anger of moments earlier, her voice is now completely flat. “An emancipated minor… did you know that?”

“No… no, I didn’t know that.”

“I had a brother… he left home the second he turned eighteen,” she says. “Not that I can blame him… my family… we were not Rockwellian. We were the furthest thing from…” She stops talking then, clears her throat noisily. “My father… my father is dead. And my mother…” She falters on the word, looks down and presses her clenched fist to her lips before she speaks again. “Might as well be.”

There are tears standing in her eyes, and suddenly he finds himself sitting on the end of the bed, close enough to touch her, but afraid to, because she looks so brittle that his touch alone could shatter her.

He sits there in helpless silence until she drags her eyes up to his again, and her ragged whisper breaks his heart. “I have no-one Will,” she tells him, and to this, at least, he has an answer.

“You have me,” he tries, though he doesn’t know if she wants him right now, doesn’t know if he could ever be enough.

Whatever he’s worth though, it seems to be enough for her, because she lets out a little sob before she leans forward, falling into his arms.

_“Which truth?”_

He spends from then until Christmas break trying to convince her that she should come home with him for Christmas, but from then until Christmas break, Sara declines the invitation, spending Christmas as she said she would, in Boston, alone. He calls her every night, even Christmas night, something that amuses his family hugely, makes his father curious, makes Elsie tease him almost beyond bearing, but he ignores all comments, all questions, about his Harvard girlfriend.

He figures it’s no-one’s business but his.

And come the New Year, he’s very glad he said nothing about her.

Because come the New Year, he notices a difference in Sara, in the way she looks at him, the way she touches him, the way she reacts when he touches her. It’s a gradual lessening of response, an ever-growing distance, and he’s not really surprised when she announces, as spring foliage is beginning to bud, that she wants to move back to the Bay Area, is transferring to Berkeley for her sophomore year. She says nothing about breaking up with him, nor does he mention it, but both know that long distance relationships really work, and, both being practical people, it’s assumed by both that they’ll just stop seeing one another in the summer.

Which is what happens, when he’s the one to drive her to the airport, all her belongings in a battered old suitcase in the boot of his car. He finds a parking space near to the terminal, and they sit in the car for a long moment once he’s cut the engine. His hand finds hers, squeezes tightly, and when he looks over at her, he can see that she’s keeping back tears.

“We’ll keep in touch,” he says, and he’s not sure if it’s a question or a promise, and from the look on her face, from the way her teeth chew her bottom lip, neither is she.

For once, she lets the insecurity show in words, asking him, “Promise?” and he smiles, despite himself.

“I promise,” he says, pulling her into a hug, and he means it.

Just like he means it every time he says it over the next decade, every time that he brings her to an airport in some city across the country, every time she drops him off. It’s not frequently enough for his tastes, so he makes do with letters and emails and phone calls, and most of the time, he even manages to forget that he used to wish that there could be something more between them.

And when she calls to give him her new address in Las Vegas, tells him that she’s moved there to work with Gil Grissom, he puts any hopes he might have harboured to bed for good. He knows Sara, knows how she feels about Grissom, even if she won’t admit it, and he knows there’s only one reason why she would move to Las Vegas.

A mirror reason of the same reason she left Boston all those years ago.

Back then, he was getting too close to her.

Now, it looks like she’s found someone she wants to be close to.

He invites himself to visit her, even though it’s been a long time since he’s needed an invitation, telling her that he could use a vacation, that the mid-term elections have been particularly brutal, and he needs to see a friendly face. All of which happens to be true, and after he’s closed up the office of a losing campaign, he flies to Vegas, finds her address and knocks on her door.

He’s expecting to see a friendly face.

He’s not expecting the welcome that he gets, doesn’t expect her to open the door and throw herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. His hands flatten automatically against her shaking back, and a thousand questions come into his head, because he’s never, never, seen Sara like this before, not even that first night. He’s so surprised, so worried, that he can’t do anything but hold her, letting her take her time, waiting until she’s ready to move.

When she does pull away from him, her cheeks are as red as her eyes, and she gives him a smile that’s shaky, and more than a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” she mutters, and he chuckles, diffusing the situation with a joke.

“No need to apologise to me,” he says. “It’s not like I have women throwing themselves at me every day of the week…”

Shakiness and embarrassment flee, and the resulting smile is far more warm and genuine. “That’s almost hard to believe Will,” she replies, and he narrows his eyes, pretending offence.

“What can I say?” he asks, stepping fully inside her apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. “Being on the losing side of an election doesn’t exactly do wonders for your love life.”

Sara snickers, leading him into the small living area. “Neither does being a nightshift CSI,” she says, and he tilts his head, suddenly glad she can’t see the look on his face.

She makes him coffee, and they sit and talk, catching up on one another’s lives, conversation flowing easily between them, as it always does. He learns about her shift and her co-workers, teases her about the small apartment, and when he learns that tonight he is her night off, he refuses categorically to take the bed. “It’s not like I’m going to sleep much,” she says, more, he thinks, to herself than to him, and it gives him the opportunity to ask the question he’s been wanting to ask since she threw herself into his arms.

“Nightmares?” It’s a gentle enquiry, one that she could bat aside if she so wishes, and he’s not sure who’s more surprised when she sighs, shakes her head.

“You could say that.”

“Would you say that?” It’s a little bit more of a nudge, and she sighs, dropping her head and raking a hand through her hair. “Rough case?” he guesses, leaving her the out, and she sighs again, reaches for the newspaper that lies on the coffee table, flipping it open so that he can see the headlines she looks away from.

She evidently means for him to read it, and he does, his stomach churning at the images that the words conjure up; a family slaughtered in their beds, their blood decorating the walls. Four dead, mother, father and two sons, two daughters, a child and a teenager left untouched and just in case the story didn’t make you realise how perfect a family they were, there was a picture, six people smiling into the camera.

“The little girl… Brenda… Grissom made me take her to the hospital… you should have seen her… staring up at me… those big wide eyes… she wouldn’t let go of me.” Sara’s voice is quiet, and the fingers of her left hand slide over her right, as if she’s imagining the little girl’s touch. “She was so scared, Will… the blood on the walls…in the air… there was a rookie officer puking his guts out… and she wouldn’t let go of my hand… and all I could think was… I know just how she feels.”

Her voice trails off then, and he frowns, not quite understanding what she’s saying. Then he recalls another night, long ago, where she talked about her past, and he’s very afraid that he might. “Sara?” he prompts, and when she turns to meet his gaze, he realises he’s seen that look on her face before – eyes empty, soulless – the first night she woke up screaming.

“I remember being in the kitchen downstairs… hearing my parents fighting. Which wasn’t anything new… not hearing them fighting, that would have been new. I was thirsty… so I was at the fridge, getting a glass of milk… that’s when I heard the scream. Which again, wasn’t anything new… except that this time… it was my father doing the screaming. I was so shocked, I dropped the glass… and I knew they’d be angry if they saw that… so I went to clean it up… and then I heard another scream… and I cut my hand, on the glass…” She holds up her left palm, studies it carefully, as if she can still see the blood. “I don’t remember going upstairs… but I remember the blood on the wall… my father…” Her voice breaks then, and she looks down, looks away from him. “My mother’s voice… ‘Clean-up’s gonna be something; we should get started…’…” She closes her eyes, her head twisting almost violently, and when he lays a hand on her shoulder, she jumps.

There’s nothing he can say, so he just lets her speak. “I’d forgotten so much of that,” she whispers. “But I thought that they were the only similarities… I was wrong.”

Although it’s Las Vegas, although it’s the middle of the afternoon, Will feels very cold all of a sudden. “Wrong?”

“Brenda’s father… abused her. And his other daughter. Except… the older girl… she became pregnant. At thirteen.”

Will’s stomach turns, and he fights very hard not to throw up. “Brenda?” he asks, and she nods slowly.

“Brenda.” Her lips twist again. “I thought she was me… but so was Tina… that’s what my parents were fighting about… that night… my mother didn’t know…” She gulps, the first tear making its way down her cheek. “She didn’t know…”

Will can’t believe what he’s hearing, doesn’t want to believe it, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear any more. So he does the only thing he can, moves to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pull her closer to him. That’s not what Sara wants though, because she shakes her head as she stands, wipes at her cheeks impatiently. “They took me into foster care… away from Tomales Bay,” she says. “And I came back… after… and no-one ever knew…” He stands up, watches her pace, but says nothing until she stands still, turns to face him. She looks like he feels; face utterly devoid of colour, a sickly shade of pale, growing even paler as she whispers, “I never even looked at her… I couldn’t…” Her voice is filled with horror, as if the memory has only just come to her, and perhaps, Will thinks, it has. Either way, she visibly begins to tremble, her knees giving out, and he catches her as she falls, cradles her head against his shoulder and lets her cry.

_“Point taken… you’ve always been there for me.”_

It’s a week after the longest seventy-two hours of his life when Will makes the trip to Las Vegas, and he’s never been so grateful to be on a plane heading anywhere. California might have beaches, Europe might have castles belonging to dissolute friends of his who were more than willing to share their dissolute lifestyle with him, but Vegas has Sara, and right now, she is the one person in the world who he really wants to see.

He is asleep before the plane leaves the Dulles tarmac, waking only when they land at McCarran, his dreams featuring a Presidential speech that was never given, Jed Bartlet standing at the lectern in the National Cathedral, a portrait of Zoey at his side, a coffin in front of him. The words Will spent so long slaving over, spoke in that famous voice echo in his ears when he wakes, along with the ghosts of muffled sobs, and he feels no more rested than he did when he got onto the plane in the first place.

The lines for rental cars are far too long for his taste, and it seems to take an age to get to Sara’s apartment. Eventually, he arrives, drags himself up the stairs and knocks on her doors, wanting only to close the door behind him and shut out the West Wing for the weekend.

He’s not expecting the reaction he gets.

The last time he arrived at this door – the only time he arrived at this door – she flung herself into his arms and hung on tightly. This time, she does likewise, but with one major difference.

This time, she hugs him just as hard, but not for nearly as long, and when she pulls back, right before he can ask her if she’s all right, her lips land on his with bruising force. He kisses her back without even thinking about it, because even though it’s been years since he kissed her, and far too long since he kissed any woman, this is Sara, and it’s not like his dreams haven’t featured this exact scenario any number of times since he’s known her.

But when she pulls him into her apartment, blinding pushing the door shut behind him, drags him to the floor while pulling at his clothes, it’s suddenly very far from a dream.

And even though he doesn’t know what’s causing this, he’s very far from wanting to stop it, because she’s kissing him with the same desperation that he’s feeling, has been feeling since the Secret Service shut down the White House, reporting that Zoey had been kidnapped. He’d instantly went into professional political operative mode, shutting down any emotions he might have been feeling, and until now, he hasn’t really moved away from that.

But now, with Sara in his arms, moving against him, he’s feeling everything, and he knows that no matter the reasons, no matter the consequences, he needs this.

Just like she does.

The first time, they don’t make it out of her hallway; for the second, they manage to find their way to the couch. The third happens in her bedroom, though Will’s got no clear memory of ending up there, and it’s only after the fourth time, when they’re still tangled up in one another’s bodies, tangled in the crisp white sheets of her bed, that he notices her left hand is bandaged, that there are cuts and scrapes on her face.

“What happened?” he asks, dismay and concern evident in his voice, in the touch of his finger along the red marks on her face, and her cheeks, already flushed, grow more so as he looks at her.

“Explosion in the DNA lab,” she replies. “I was walking by… and the window blew out…” She shudders in his arms, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, and one of his hands moves soothingly up and down her back, the other finding her left, bandaged, hand, raising it between them.

“This too?” he asks, and she nods slowly.

“You know what’s weird?” she asks, and he knows she doesn’t expect an answer. “It’s exactly where I cut my hand… that night… I remember the broken glass… and I remember looking at Grissom… and saying exactly what my mother said to me…” Her voice is as pained as her expression, and he pulls her closer to him, presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“You were in shock,” he tells her, though she must have already known that. “It’s natural…”

She nods against his chest, then lifts her head to meet his eyes. “I’m fine, you know,” she tells him, though the fact that they’re here, having done what they’ve just done, tells him otherwise, as does the look in her eyes, the tremor in her voice. “Really.” He doesn’t say anything, just reaches up to push back a lock of hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger there. Her eyes flutter closed at the touch, and the faintest of smiles appears on her lips. “Some welcome, huh?”

He chuckles. “Did you hear me complaining?” he asks, and the question makes her laugh too as she lies back down, resting her head on his shoulder.

“How’s Washington?” she asks quietly, fingers tracing a pattern against his chest, and he can’t hold back his sigh.

“It’s like… we’re walking around, trying to pretend that nothing happened… but none of us are the same people we were two weeks ago… we’re not even close.”

Her own sigh raises goosebumps on his flesh. “Tell me about it.” There’s nothing he can say to that, so he just lies there, stares up at her ceiling, fingers moving absently over her skin, her own fingers moving likewise. Then she shifts slightly, tilts her head up to look at him. “I’m glad you’re here, Will,” she tells him, and he smiles as he brings his lips to hers.

“Me too,” he replies, before proceeding to show her for a fifth time just how glad he is.

_“It’s never been hard.”_

“You look like hell.”

The words escape Will’s lips before he can stop them, and it’s only when they hang in the air between them that he realises how they sound, having already known, seeing with his own eyes, that they’re God’s own truth. Sara does look like hell, face pale, eyes dark shadowed and red rimmed, her hair hanging limply around her cheeks, and the thought comes to him quickly that in all the years he’s known her, he’s never seen her look so haggard.

Just as quickly, the thought comes to him that Sara probably knows that, doesn’t really want it to be pointed out to her, and that realisation is followed promptly by the thought that she’s probably going to be pretty pissed off at him.

And when all she does is lean against the doorframe of his apartment, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head with a rueful smile, he knows just how serious things are.

“I didn’t come all the way to Washington to be insulted,” she says, and it’s probably supposed to be teasing; it comes out as anything but. Tired, yes. Defeated, yes. Anything but teasing.

“Too bad,” he tells her, trying to inject some humour into his own voice, in what he’s fairly sure is a vain attempt to keep some semblance of normality in this conversation. There’s a brief spark of humour in her eyes that lets him see that he’s succeeded somewhat, but he has a feeling that that spark disappears when he steps towards her, pulls her into his arms and holds on tightly.

It’s nowhere near long enough before he lets her go, and he keeps a hold of one of her hands, bending down to take her bag with the other. He hears her sigh, her hand tightening on his, and he leads her into his apartment where she falls down onto his couch, closes her eyes. “I could have picked you up at Dulles,” he tells her as he walks past her, bringing the bag to his guest room, and she waves a hand in what he takes to be a “don’t worry about it” gesture.

When he comes back, she’s still reclining on his couch, eyes shut, and he almost thinks she’s fallen asleep. Until, that is, he sits down beside her, one hand reaching out to run a hand over her hair, and she turns her head towards him, dark eyes finding his. “I don’t know where to begin,” she whispers, and he shrugs, all the while fighting down his mounting sense of unease.

“We’ve got all week,” he tells her, and genuine surprise floods her face.

“What about the White House?” she wonders, and that’s his cue for a wave of the hand.

“The Vice President can get along without me for the week.”

She actually snickers. “All evidence to the contrary,” she quips, and he rolls his eyes.

“Everyone’s a critic.” She looks like she’s going to say something else, then she just tilts her head back, looks up at the ceiling. “Take your time… I’m not going anywhere.”

_“Why couldn’t we ever make it work long-term again?”_

“You know... you’re the only person I’d ever believe that from.” She says it with something approaching wonder, and he tilts his head, frowns slightly, encouraging her without words to continue. “You’re my oldest friend,” she tells him. “And there are times when I don’t think anyone knows me as well as you do… maybe that’s why I came here.”

“You mean it wasn’t just to get away from Vegas?” Except that by Vegas, he doesn’t just mean Vegas, and he’s fairly certain that she knows that.

“I haven’t been… myself… lately,” she tells him. “I’ve been… I’ve been drinking. A lot. And a little while ago… after shift, on my way home… I got pulled over.” She speaks slowly, haltingly, and Will just listens, doesn’t stop his hand moving over her hair. “I was just barely over… so they cut me a break. Professional courtesy.” The last is said quite bitterly. “Called Grissom…got him to take me home.”

Will winces, well able to imagine how that must have made her feel. “What happened?”

“He talked to me… ordered me into counselling… and that was pretty much it. So I did my counselling… then I came here.”

He’s not sure what that means, but he feels a momentary urge to strangle a man he’s never even met.

“My counsellor… she told me… that I should talk about… things. That I… bottle things up.” He fights the grin forming on his lips, fights it hard, but he’s not so sure he succeeds, and when he sees her wry smile, he knows he hasn’t. “I can tell this surprises you.”

“Just a little.”

“She thinks… that I’m suffering from PTSD… that the drinking… the other mood swings… are my way of trying to deal with the fact that…”

Here, her throat closes up, and she looks away from him, as if she’s ashamed. The glimpse he catches of her face breaks his heart, and he keeps his hand moving through her hair, slides the other one down to entwine their fingers together. “That twenty years ago…” he asks gently, and that’s all that needs to be said.

She moves so quickly that he’s barely aware of it, doesn’t realise that she has until her head is pressed against her shoulder, her arms around his neck. His hands flatten around her shaking back, and he just lets her cry.

_“I was never emotionally inaccessible enough for you.”_

Sara’s never been one to talk about her feelings, even with him, the process usually having been something akin to pulling teeth with her. That week, however, they talk about everything. About her past, her present, and her feelings about both. She tells him about Grissom, about how bad things have been in Vegas ever since the explosion last year, about how the cut on her palm reminded her of that night so many years ago, the night her entire life fell apart. She tells him about the dreams and about the flashbacks, and for the first time, she’s completely honest with him, with herself, and by the end of the week, by the time she’s returning to Vegas, she looks as if ten tonnes of weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

For the next year, he calls her often, once or twice a week, keeps in touch with her, makes sure she’s doing better, and for a time, he’s sure that she is.

Then he answers his phone one afternoon and hears her voice on the other end. He realises right away that he’s never heard Sara sound like that before, so hesitant, so unsure, voice literally quavering, and he sits bolt upright in his chair, elbows rooted to the solid wood of his office desk, as if it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“Talk to me, Sara,” he orders, not even bothering to keep the alarm out of his voice.

“I got a letter,” she tells him, and that’s when he knows, because there’s only one thing that could upset Sara this much.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

_“Is this about Grissom? You know, I don’t think he liked you much.”_

Will’s seen the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau from outside, but never from the inside before, and it’s far from what he thought it would be. From his imaginings, from Sara’s descriptions, he’s always thought of it as a veritable beehive of activity, all kinds of people going back and forth, three shifts of workers sometimes overlapping, too many people with too much to do and not nearly enough time to do it in.

It’s not like that though. Today, the lobby is quiet, even with the people who are here, milling around, moving back and forth. Will notices this, but doesn’t take any real notice of it, just moves to the reception desk, where he gives the girl standing behind it – a short woman, with long hair and glasses, a pale face and big eyes, nametag reading Judy – his best smile.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m looking for someone who works here…Sara Sidle.” Because though he’d tried to talk her out of it, she’d insisted on going into work, compromising with him, telling him to come straight to the lab when he got into Vegas and that she’d clock off right then and there. “I tried her cell phone,” he continues, when there’s no response, “But there was no answer… could you see if she’s here, or…”

His voice trails off when he realises that Judy is looking at him with something very akin to horror on her suddenly even paler face. She stares at him, blinking those huge eyes, then she looks past him, her face showing immense relief. “Nick!” she calls, voice loud in the silence of the room, and Will looks over his shoulder at the man who’s approaching. He’s slightly taller than Will is, about the same age, with dark hair and a strong jaw, one that’s clenched firm right now. Will doesn’t need to hear him speak to know that he’s going to have a Texan accent, that this is the Nick Stokes that Sara has often spoken to him about, and he begins to smile, prepares to explain who he is and why he’s here.

Then Nick speaks, his voice rough and careworn. “Yeah, Judy?”

Judy gestures at Will. “This man is here to see Sara…”

Nick looks at him, and this close, Will can’t miss the flash of pain that sears over his features, lingering there.

And even though he’s in Las Vegas, a desert state on a summer’s day, Will is suddenly very, very cold.

_“It’s mutual… when I think of what he put you through…”_

It’s easier than Will might have thought to put faces to names, and he finds he can identify the people in the hallway even before Nick introduces them.

The well built black man with his arm around the blonde woman, they have to be Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown, while the young man with the spiky hair can only be Greg Sanders.

While the man in the far corner, bearded and bespectacled with grey curly hair, can only be Gil Grissom.

The sight of him makes Will’s blood boil, even though he knows he’s being irrational, even though he knows this whole situation has nothing to do with Grissom. Still though, he can’t help but think that this man is the reason that Sara came to Vegas, the reason she stayed there… the reason she…

He shakes his head to clear the thought, and when he comes back to reality, he becomes aware that everyone is looking at him curiously as Nick explains who he is, that he’s a friend of Sara’s who’s just arrived in town for a visit. Grissom’s gaze quickly moves from curious to something else, almost suspicious, and Will speaks without thought.

“I want to see her.”

It’s unspeakably an order, not a request, directed at Grissom, and the older man bristles. Will’s dimly aware of the rest of the group looking awkwardly at one another, as if they too can sense the suddenly charged atmosphere between the two men in Sara’s life. Grissom, Will knows, either from his brief observation of him, or Sara’s more protracted tales, is not a man who takes kindly to being ordered around, and he squares his shoulders, crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m not sure that’s-” he begins, but Will doesn’t let him finish, the first negative word using up what little is left of his patience.

“Let me repeat myself,” he says sharply, using the tone that’s made Congressmen and Washington interns quail in terror. “My name is Will Bailey… I am Chief of Staff to the Vice President of the United States of America, I have the diplomatic rank of a three star general, and as well as being one of Sara’s oldest friends, I also happen to be her next of kin.” He pauses, allows that to sink in, taking perverse pleasure in how Grissom’s jaw drops ever so slightly, how the man’s cheek’s, already pale, lose a little more colour. “I want. To see. Her.”

_“Don’t worry about that now… just concentrate on what you’re here to do.”_

Will shakes his head at the words, looks out the car window at the house beyond. It’s a nice house – single storey, white walled and red-roofed, perfectly painted shutters on the windows, perfectly manicured lawns surrounded by colourful flowerbeds – in a nice neighbourhood. He’s been sitting here for ten minutes, conversing with her, and already several kids have passed by, either on their bikes or walking by in groups, chasing balls, chasing dogs.

He thinks it was probably a good place to have grown up.

“What am I going to say?” he wonders now, running his hand over his face, tilting his head back against the headrest.

“You’ll figure it out,” Sara tells him, her voice conveying total and utter confidence in him. He looks over at him, receives a beaming smile in response, and her hand reaches out, runs over his hair. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he has to swallow hard. “You’re the only one I’d trust to do this, you know.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, meeting her gaze with his own, letting it linger. “I know.”

Taking a deep breath, he opens the car door and gets out, walks across the street and up the perfectly even, perfectly clean driveway. He knocks on the door, and it’s not long before it opens, revealing a sight that all but stops his heart. Standing in front of him is a ghost, the Sara he first met back at Harvard, and he forces the word, “Jessica?” past his lips, though there really can be no doubt.

The girl – young woman, he corrects himself – nods, eyes narrowed. “May I help you?” she asks, and he nods, holds out the letter to her in lieu of the words he cannot find.

When her eyes fall on the envelope, when she sees her own handwriting, her eyes widen, and her hand shakes as she takes it from him, looking at him curiously now. “May I come in?” is all he says, all he can say, and she nods, stepping back to let him pass.

Before Will takes another step, he turns, looks back towards the car, sees Sara standing there, having taken everything in. As he watches, she smiles, a smile of pure happiness, and even though he smiles back, he can feel his heart breaking. Her smile falters then, turns sad, wistful, and she raises a hand to him, the smallest of waves before she seems to shimmer before his gaze, fading slowly like mist in the morning, until there is nothing left.

Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, Will turns back to the young woman who’s looking at him half-scared, half-hopeful, and he forces a smile to his lips, hoping to set her at ease. “My name’s Will Bailey,” he says, stepping past her, the words coming to him, just as Sara had said they would. “I’m here about your mother.”


End file.
